Lucky Ride (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series Book 8) Page 10

  “Like someone was in a hurry?”

  “Or surprised.” He tilted his head as he fingered the lump. “Or the person doing the sticking was an amateur.”

  “The horse might’ve jumped or fought?” I looked at that needle and thought if someone approached me with that thing, I’d do a whole lot more than flinch.

  “No, they’re usually pretty calm about venous sticks.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure how this all went down, but I’d say someone intended to kill this animal.”

  Weird things have been going on. That’s what Beckham had said. “Go on.”

  Beside me, Romeo eased his pad and pencil out of an inside pocket.

  “I’ll know more when we test that syringe and determine what exactly is in it. But I’d hazard a guess that it’s a barbiturate. We use that for euthanasia. It’s a controlled substance. As a vet, I have a supply, but I have to comply with very strict documentation procedures and the medicine must be locked up at all times.”

  “Where do you keep yours?”

  “In my truck, in the back. It’s secure, I assure you.” He tilted his head toward the arena.

  “Did the horse get the whole dose?” The syringe was empty, so that was a good guess.

  “Hard to say. I don’t know how much was in it to begin with. But he didn’t get enough to kill him—almost but not quite.”

  “Why do you think the horse got barbiturates?”

  Doc Latham pursed his lips and nodded. “They suppress breathing. In large enough doses…”

  “You suffocate,” I finished.

  “How do you know this stuff?” Romeo sounded peeved.

  “My pony. Long time ago.” But it still hurt like it was yesterday. The look in his eye, so trusting. Was it a betrayal to end pain? My brain said no. My heart disagreed.

  “The horses suffocate, too?” The young detective asked the vet.

  “Yep. Sometimes they can even know what’s happening but can’t change the outcome. That’s why you don’t use this on an animal that is awake.”

  “Or a human,” I whispered, thinking back to Mr. Turnbull staggering into the arena, most likely fighting to breathe. A little tidbit of horror I didn’t want to own.

  “Do you think Mr. Turnbull could’ve surprised whoever was trying to kill this horse, and he got a dose of the joy juice instead?” I asked Romeo.

  “It fits the facts that we know so far. Lab will confirm it.” He jotted a few notes.

  “The rodeo was going full-bore,” I said, pointing out the obvious to make my point—another of my highly-developed skills. “Odd time to kill a horse, with everyone around.” I stood and turned slowly, taking in the interior walls of the stall. They were modular units, intended as temporary housing, and, as such, these panels had seen better days. Scratched, dented, showing teeth marks and a few half-moon hoof prints, the walls wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know. “If there was a fight in here, there’s no way to tell that I can see.”

  That piqued Romeo’s attention.

  “Who called you out tonight?” I asked Doc Latham while Romeo made his pass around the stall.

  “My assistant.”

  My radar pinged. “Assistant?”

  “Bethany. She’s a doll. Signed on in Reno; we both did. She’s been accepted at Cornell, a joint program, undergrad then vet school. Been a vet tech all through high school. She knows her way around the animals.”

  For a kid who claimed innocence, her name was cropping up in the thick of everything. “Bethany? Cute kid, all legs and big eyes. Just lost her grandmother?”

  Both the Doc and Romeo turned on me, wide-eyed. “How’d you know?” Doc asked.

  Romeo already knew the answer. “The girl.”

  “You know her?” Doc looked between Romeo and me.

  Romeo, his pen poised over his pad, eyed the vet. “You got a last name?”

  “Fiorelli.” The vet looked between Romeo and me. “What’s going on?”

  “How’s my fucking horse?” The voice, muffled, rode on an undercurrent of anger. Even half-looped the guy had a hard-on for conflict.

  I gave the doc my best sardonic look. “I don’t think Mr. Beckham is a good candidate for long-term animal ownership. What do you think?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know what I think.”

  “I’m taking it this warm and fuzzy side of his personality is normal?”

  “The guy is nothing but a fight looking for a place to happen.” Doc collected his things, putting them back in his satchel. “Lately though, he’s been worse. Like something was eating at him. Don’t know what. You might want to ask him, but I’d put something between you and him before you do.”

  I rubbed my elbow where it had connected with Mr. Beckham’s jaw. “If I can’t take him, I can outrun him.”

  I motioned to Romeo. “Would you mind riding herd on the guy? I just need a moment.”

  “As you wish.” Romeo bowed low.

  I ignored him, although he knew the way to my heart was through vague movie references.

  “That man has been a thorn in my side,” Doc Latham continued.

  “Can I come in there and poke around in the shavings?”

  Doc shifted to the side. “Sure, just be quiet and gentle.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Romeo muttered.

  “I pay him to keep my ego in check,” I said to Doc Latham with a nod to Romeo as I stepped into the stall.

  “Is he worth the money?”

  “Every penny and then some.” I squatted next to the doc. “You do know your assistant…Bethany, is it?” I kept hoping he’d say I made a mistake and it was one of the other girls.

  He nodded. Hopes dashed.

  “You do know she’s under suspicion in relation to the death of Mr. Turnbull?”

  “What?” The word held genuine surprise, if I was any judge. “Bethany wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Yes, well, maybe her love for all in the animal kingdom doesn’t extend to the lowly humanoid cousins.”

  “Impossible. The kid has had some hard knocks, sure. But she has her whole life, her dreams, within her grasp.”

  The warmth of the horse was comforting. When I was young and life was harder than normal—it was a challenge being the child of a local whore—I’d put my hand, fingers splayed, on my pony. The strength, the power of the animal flowed through me and it was as if the planets aligned for just a moment to give me peace. Now I closed my eyes and did the same thing. I could feel a smile playing with my lips as I pressed my hand to the horse on the ground. He was afraid but fighting. Weren’t we all?

  “It’s magic, isn’t it?” Doc whispered.

  “A moment of visceral connection to who we used to be.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you guys going all Zen in there?” Romeo sounded worried as Mr. Beckham stirred and groaned. “Stay where you are, Mr. Beckham.”

  The man bellowed—the primal howl of a pissed-off animal. “Where is that bitch who hit me?”

  “Right here, Mr. Beckham,” I called through the stall rails, happy for once to be inside the pen. “And if you don’t sit tight, the Boy Detective will shoot you.”

  Romeo looked at me wide-eyed—he didn’t carry a gun. I passed him the Glock that I’d taken to carrying in the waist of my pants. A holster would be a good idea, especially if I didn’t want to accidentally shoot myself in the ass, but somehow wearing a holster seemed pretentious.

  The whole concealed carry thing was a holdover from China reminding me I had yet to fully transition from that continent to this one. Carrying a gun was illegal in China, which, of course, ensured it was a necessity. “Doc, do you have an extra pair of gloves?”

  “Sure.” He rooted for them in his bag.

  I snapped them on, then felt across the floor, moving my hand under the shavings, sweeping near the horse, then back again. On the first pass, as I brushed some shavings out of the way, I caught a hint of color I didn�
�t expect.

  Red.

  I worked back through, sifting. Then I found it—a tangle of red fibers. Using a piece of hay, I separated it out, then worked around so I could see it in the dim light. A ball. Like a little puff thing—short fibers gathered together with a thread tail, coming apart at the end. Like it had been ripped or torn, pulled from something…like a costume.

  “Do the barrel racers wear costumes?”

  “Some do.” The doc gave me a look like he knew what I was thinking. “Couldn’t tell you if Poppy does.”

  “Mr. Beckham?” Even though he kept quiet, I could feel him absorbing everything we said and did. Something was rattling his cage, something more than the obvious.

  He’d gone still, quiet. “I don’t pay much attention to that girl stuff.” A stage father who micromanaged every detail? His assertion sounded like a lie. But, as a human suffering from the Y-chromosome defect, he acted consistently with my expectation, not that I was a bit disappointed. I’m always hoping for easy, but, to be honest, Teddie is the only man I knew who would have known the answer.

  Teddie. I shrugged off that hope for comfort—we were long past that.

  With the hay, I scraped the fluff ball into the baggie Rico had given me. After pocketing it, careful to keep the contents separate by folding the baggie, I continued my search.

  On my third pass, I felt it.

  After retrieving the object, I smiled.

  A tube of lipstick.

  “I’d be betting this is Tawny Rose.”

  Someone had been leaving clues. Or the bad-deed-doer was conveniently inept.

  But what did they mean? Who did they point to? I retrieved my baggie and then handed it and the tube, after encasing it in the latex gloves as I peeled them off backward, to Romeo. “Evidence,” I said as if he needed me to point out the obvious.

  He rolled his eyes, then carefully stowed the bag in his inside pocket.

  With both hands through the handle of his case, which hung across his thighs, the doc looked at Romeo. “I’ve done all I can.”

  “How’s my girl’s horse?” Mr. Beckham bellowed. “She’ll be out of her mind if anything happens to that animal.”

  “He’ll be fine. His breathing is normalizing. Anything else you need from me?”

  “Nobody’s going to do that to my girl, you got that?” Mr. Beckham’s voice carried a threat.

  “Not to worry, Homer. The pony’s going to be okay. You’re one of the lucky ones.”

  “What do you mean by that?” My voice sharpened.

  The doc gave me a level stare. “Homer’s lucky that someone interrupted what was going down in here.”

  “How do you know someone interrupted the horse killer?”

  “If they hadn’t, we’d be looking at one dead pony. Had one just like it at the last stop in Reno.”

  “The Browns?”

  “Yeah. Real nice horse.” He took off his ball cap and ran his fingers through his hair before replacing it. “One dead horse is an accident. Two is a coincidence.”

  “And I don’t believe in coincidences, Doc.”

  “Not that unusual, Ms. O’Toole, is it?”

  “Yeah. The horses are insured?”

  “The good ones, sure. It takes a lot of money to get a horse to this level. Freak accidents can happen.”

  Odd phrasing for a vet. “Intentionally killing a horse isn’t a freak accident. So, to ask the detective’s question—do you have any idea why someone would want to hurt this horse, besides the obvious?”

  “Any idea who would want to hurt this horse?” Romeo asked, circling back around. We’d covered the why, now he’d worked his way to the who, a far more interesting question.

  “No.”

  It was hard to tell whether he did or he didn’t. Regardless, he didn’t feel compelled to educate me any further.

  “Where were you tonight, Doc?” Romeo asked. No matter how casually he asked, it always came out sounding like an accusation.

  “You really think I’d sign on as a hired horse killer?”

  “Answer the question, please.” Romeo used his detective voice.

  “It’s my job to be here during the rodeo.”

  “So, you were here?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?”

  I jumped in—nothing I hate more than someone trying to be vague. “No, you said it was your job to be here. You didn’t say where you were. Answer his question.”

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he rolled his gaze upward. Divine inspiration wasn’t going to alter the truth, but I didn’t think I needed to tell him that. “I was with Dora Bates. We had some dinner at the steak stand, then she walked me out and I left.”

  “You and Dora are friends?” I watched for a hint of evasion.

  I got it. He stared at his feet. “You could say that.”

  “Did anything about what went down, as you called it, seem unusual or strike you as odd?” Romeo asked.

  “You mean besides Turnbull dropping dead?” Now the good doctor adopted a testy tone.

  Silence was the best antidote to sarcasm, so Romeo and I both crossed our arms and looked at him.

  Beckham jumped into the fray, his voice crackling with glee. “You and that friggin’ whack job? Man, I bet she’s one hell of a ride.”

  Doc Latham dropped his case and lunged for the big asshat. Beckham braced for impact, his feet wide, his hands fisted, a smile splitting his face.

  I used my body to block Beckham, while Romeo caught Doc Latham.

  “Knock it off!” Romeo shouted. He glanced at me as Doc got hold of himself and stepped back, retrieving his case.

  With both hands in the center of his chest, I pushed Beckham back. He staggered a bit, then sank to his knees, falling back into a seated position. He looked a bit green around the gills. I’d smacked him pretty good, but not that hard. Hanging his head, he looked like his world was spinning.

  “You okay?”

  “Been under a lot of pressure. Now the horse thing, and Trevor. Shit.” Capitulation rang in his words—we were getting closer to the truth.

  “You’ve got a lot of money riding on this, don’t you?” I bit down on the smile—puns…I love puns…and clichés and platitudes and all their cousins. A terrible habit but one I had no intention of abandoning.

  “Money, hopes, dreams…my girl…” His sigh carried the fullness of the thought, and in it, I heard a hint of humanity. “This was our first season on this part of the rodeo swing. Poppy had been doing real well regionally, but now we’re on the national stage, a big leap.”

  “Where were you tonight, Mr. Beckham? Were you here before Mr. Turnbull staggered into the arena?”

  “No. I was at the bar down the street from the hotel. I’m sure they’ve got me on video or something.”

  “Why did you come back here?”

  “Got a call. Said my horse was sick and I needed to call the vet ASAP, which I did but he was already on the way.”

  “Who called you?”

  He didn’t want to tell us, that much was obvious. “Poppy. Okay? It was Poppy. I should’ve been here.”

  “She’s safe and the pony will live. It all turned out okay.” Yeah, I had a mile-wide obvious streak.

  “Except for poor Trevor.” Emotion resonated.

  But I couldn’t tell which emotion.

  “Mr. Beckham, you’re free to go,” Romeo said. “But I’m going to check out your alibi. And you stick close, no leaving town until I say so. You got that?”

  Mr. Beckham didn’t acknowledge that one way or the other.

  “If you leave, I’ll hunt you down, and you won’t like what’ll happen next.”

  Man, the kid was plagiarizing from my playbook. I liked it.

  With the two men glaring at each other, I stepped in.

  I turned to our bystander, who’d been awfully quiet. “Well, Doc, perhaps then you could take Detective Romeo to your truck and show him how you secure your controlled substances. Maybe he could
double-check your documentation with your inventory?”

  The doc stared at Beckham. Even I could read the dislike.

  “I’ll make sure Mr. Beckham isn’t still seeing stars before I let him climb behind the wheel,” I assured the vet, even though I doubted he cared overmuch.

  Mr. Beckham gave me a veiled look, but he didn’t move from his seated position, his legs drawn up, his arms banded around his knees, holding them to his chest. His color was normalizing, but he still looked like he might be wobbly, which pissed him off.

  Romeo offered my gun back, butt first.

  I pushed it back toward him. “You keep it.”

  His thoughts marched across his face as he glanced at Mr. Beckham.

  “I got this.” I cocked my elbow in a show of confidence I didn’t feel. I’d rather Romeo had my gun—not that he couldn’t throw a punch, but I had bulk and experience on my side.

  The vet stepped around me. “I’ve got nothing to hide. You can check out anything you’d like.” Just past me, he turned. “What’s going to happen to Bethany? I swear she had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “How do you know?” The pony stirred, lifting its head and curling its legs underneath it.

  The vet took my arm and eased me out of the stall. “He’ll get up now. You know they can’t lie down for long.”

  “A circulation thing, I know.”

  “You like horses?” A hint of admiration crept into his flat tone as his gaze met mine and held.

  “I thought we established that. I’m female, born and raised in rural Nevada.”

  We stopped at the opening and both turned to watch the pony struggle to his feet—wobbly but improving. Yes, a very good sign.

  “About Bethany.”

  I raised an eyebrow in question—I’d asked the last one and it was still hanging out there.

  He tried to slip his gaze from mine, but I ducked and weaved to keep it.

  “She’s a good kid. Had some hard knocks, but she’d never hurt an animal, that I know.”

  “Why do I get the feeling everyone is spoon-feeding me a story, not the real story, only pieces? It’s like being served the sides without the main course—it leaves you unsatisfied.” I gave him my best stare. “And hungry.”